


Take The Weather With You

by Severina



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a persistent droplet of rain pattering through a thin crack above him and hitting him directly on the back of the neck, coursing beneath the collar of his shirt to trickle down his spine. But Daryl wouldn't move from his spot if the entire ceiling crashed down around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take The Weather With You

**Author's Note:**

> Post "Alone" and Beth was never kidnapped la la la. Fic 01 of 05 written for the tv_universe 'othewordly' challenge on LJ, for the prompt "kairos" (weather).
> 
> * * *

The rain starts a week after they escape the walkers at the funeral parlour.

They're staying in an old horse shed by then. The straw is dank and moldy and they have to share the space with the mice, but it's bordered by a stream on one side and a barbed wire fence along two of the others, and it's about the most secure they've been in a while. It does them just fine as long as they're quiet, and gives them time for wounds to heal and for words still mostly unspoken to sink in deep and find peace. 

And after a couple more days working with the crossbow Beth finally proves that she _can_ hit the broad side of a barn. 

Then she smacks him on the side of the head when he says that out loud, and he ducks away from her while she scolds him for smirking, but the whole time her eyes are sparkling and she's grinning and Daryl feels lighter than he has in years; feels like he just has to spread his arms and maybe, just maybe, the wings on his back will truly let him take flight.

Neither of them senses the storm coming. One moment she's dropping berries into his bandana while he keeps watch, and a minute later the sky is grey and the wind is whipping his hair in his eyes and sending half the berries she's cupped in the scarf to scatter on the banks of the river. In the time it takes her to tie up what little's left of the fruit the sky has opened up, and he takes her hand as they run for the barn. He's barely able to see two feet in front of him through the lashing of the rain, and his feet skid in the long grass. By the time they stumble into the shelter and he pulls the ramshackle door closed, they are soaked through.

They climb into the loft and sit near the window, far enough away that the rain doesn't hit them but close enough that they can watch the lightning split the sky. Daryl frowns at the raindrops hitting the planks around them, scowls at the gaps and splits in the decaying roof. When Beth shivers he shifts his gaze to the old straw, the rusted and broken scythe in the corner, eyes darting around as he tries to find something to keep her warm. Like he hasn't already searched every damn corner of the place. Then as now, he finds nothing but broken farm equipment and the rodents, skittering around under the straw and trying to keep dry.

Finally he shrugs out of his vest, nudges Beth's shoulder until she unwraps her arms from around her knees and looks at him. 

"No," she says. The frown line is creasing her forehead, the one that he always wants to smooth away with his fingertips, his lips. "You need it."

"I'm fine," he tells her. "Dixons don't never catch cold. Ain't been sick a day since I was eight."

He doesn't tell her that it was because he got into the old man's rotgut whiskey, or that it was Merle who dared him to down the bottle. He should've known better, even though he was a damn kid. Damn stupid kid is what he was.

Beth still looks dubious, and when she won't take the vest he leans forward to wrap it around her himself. She smiles softly at him then, murmurs a thank you as she tugs it closer around her shoulders. He untucks her hair from beneath the leather and brushes it down her back. Her braid catches in his fingers and he comes back to it again, cups the thick coil in his palm and traces the shape of the plaits. The darkening sky has rendered the entirety of the barn in varying shades of grey, but in his mind's eye he sees the twist and turns of gold twining in the sunlight. 

When she ducks her head he lets the hair drop away, an excuse for his wandering hands ready to stutter from his lips. But Beth is only shifting closer, her movement stirring up dust motes that dance in the reflected light of the storm, and when she leans against his chest it only makes sense to wrap his arms around her and rub his hands over her damp arms to warm them and then to tuck her close when she sighs and lets her head fall back into the hollow of his neck. 

There's a persistent droplet of rain pattering through a thin crack above him and hitting him directly on the back of the neck, coursing beneath the collar of his shirt to trickle down his spine. But Daryl wouldn't move from his spot if the entire ceiling crashed down around him. 

The sound of the rain slamming into the roof has almost lulled him to sleep when the roar of thunder startles him awake. He jerks his head up, feels Beth stir sleepily in his arms. The rumble rolls and is slow to fade, and the hair on his arms stands at attention. Sleep is suddenly the last thing on his mind, and he runs a hand absently down Beth's arm when he feels her tense as well. 

His eyes widen, and then shut, resigned, at the next crack of lightning. 

"Daryl," Beth murmurs.

"I see 'em," he says.

Too difficult to count how many in the brief flash, but too many to count is too many for the both of them to handle. 

"Where'd they all come from?" 

Daryl shrugs. She's just musing out loud, and there isn't any need for him to answer. Could be they're drawn to the sound of the rain pounding against the barn roof. Could be walkers just don't like the closeness of the trees when it's raining; feel compelled to get out of the damn woods like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Maybe it's just bad luck.

They wait, both of them stiff with strain, until the next lightning bolt splits the sky. Daryl blinks away the after-impression, and doesn't protest when Beth eases out of his arms to turn toward him. "How many you think?" she asks. "I counted… maybe twenty."

Daryl grunts. "Sounds about right."

"Wait until it gets light, then ease out the back. Follow the stream."

Daryl nods. "Oughta try to get some more shut-eye 'fore then. I'll keep watch."

"Don't think I'll be sleepin' any more today," Beth answers, but she goes when he juts his chin toward the pile of moldering straw they've been using for a bed; lies down and tucks his vest more firmly under her chin. 

He alternates between watching the progress of the walkers in each flash of lightning and watching her eyes, wide and so very blue and unblinking as the storm moves on and the barn begins to fill again with light. He watches her pale hand flutter beneath her chin; watches the rise and fall of her chest.

There is still some distance between the herd and the first of the ragged lines of barbed wire, enough time for them to gather what little of their possessions they have and to have a quick meal of crushed berries. By the time they sneak out the back of the barn, the sun is already burning away the pools of water in the old wheel ruts. But their boots squelch in the wet dirt beneath the long grass, and Beth shivers even in the sunlight. She trudges ahead of him, picking her way through slick patches of wet leaves, her hand always on the knife at her belt. Daryl watches the way she scans ahead before moving on, the way she cocks her head to listen as well as look just like he taught her. 

She's still wearing his vest, and her long hair swings across the leather as she moves, strands catching on the ragged stitching on a pair of battered angel wings. 

He watches the sunlight glint through shades of gold, and when she pauses at the bank of the now gorged and fast-running stream to gauge the best path, he can't resist. He sweeps his hand from her crown to the middle of her back, lifts the thick fall of her hair to twine it around his fingers.

She doesn't start at his touch; doesn't do anything but smile at him and hold out her hand. When he takes it, she raises their joined hands and touches her lips to his dirty knuckles. He can't move, can't think, and if a walker had stumbled from the brush at that moment he would have been easy pickings. And maybe he could have died happy, with Beth looking at him like that.

But the walkers are half a mile away, and after a moment Daryl remembers how to breathe again. He moves his feet when Beth tugs him on, and watches her braid swing ahead of him as she takes the lead.

When the next storm hits, three days later, they are holed up in the back room of a feed store. There are no holes in the roof, no walkers in the vicinity, and two solid doors between them and the outside world. 

There is a cot that should barely hold one, but they make it work for two just fine.


End file.
